


Jake English: 0011 in Two Pistols and a Wink

by appositeNautilus



Category: Homestuck, James Bond (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appositeNautilus/pseuds/appositeNautilus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caliborn is the head of a shadowy and brutal crime syndicate who appear to have greater ambitions for the South China Sea and, perhaps, the world at large.<br/>MI6 dispatches its top man to infiltrate their latest operation and foil their plans. The intrepid, crack gentleman spy with a license to kill: Jake English, 0011!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Midshipman John Egbert was thus far not having a particularly good birthday.  
Admittedly he had received the Ghostbusters Blu-Ray Special Edition from his best friend Dave, which they had gained permission to screen later that night in the mess.  
But on the whole it was strangely hollow-feeling. The inevitable birthday card from his father had not been waiting for him during his last shore leave, and being cut off from his family was still something he was getting used to.  
“'Sup, mate?” came a familiar voice from behind him. John sat up straight.  
“Not a lot,” he said. “Just thinking about my dad.”  
“Funny you mention,” said Dave, producing an envelope and dangling it over John's shoulder. It was rich with dadly aromas. "Found this old thing. I was gonna throw it out, but I saw the name on it and I thought, 'who do I know called John?' Got to say, it was a brainteaser."  
“Give that here!” John snatched it out of Dave's hand and tore it open.

DEAR SON.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEN IT IS YOUR TWENTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY AND YOU'RE ON A BOAT NOW OR SOME SHIT. NAVY 4 LYFE DOGG. I AM SO INCREDIBLY FUCKING PROUD OF YOU. ALSO BRING ME BACK A TORPEDO THAT'S A LAD. KEEP IT REAL.

“Better appreciate that, man. Old Spice doesn't come cheap in Bali, you know. Had to barter the bejesus out of this little old lady running some kind of way legit alchemy stall. Cost me my very favourite Jay-Z record and a perfectly good hairbrush.”  
“Cheers, Dave,” John said, grinning and folding the letter. "It was uncanny."  
“Also I found that bottle of Smirnoff I'd been saving, so Ghostbusters Drinking Game is a go.”  
“Brilliant!”  
“Dude-- what's that?” Dave said, looking past him at the navigation console.  
“Hm?” John turned to check. Dave had noticed a blip on the radar. It was approaching slowly – too small to be a warship, but too big to be a whale.  
“Bridge,” John spoke into the comms. “Possible unidentified vessel approaching east-south-east at a distance of eighteen hundred metres, travelling at approximately four knots.”  
“Shouldn't we have a visual on that, by now?” Dave said. “Shit doesn't seem right.”  
John studied the radar. Dave was right. He felt a strange sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.  
Not for long though. Within the second, the HMS Dream and all hands were nothing but dust and heat, and John felt no more. There were no screams. There was no time. 

The vessel from the radar retreated. Its mission, complete.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

“Morning, Moneypenny!” Jake said, tossing his coat onto the rack. “Awful traffic today, I don't mind telling you. I haven't inadvertently jeopardised the security of the free world through tardiness again, have I?”  
Moneypenny looked unusually grave, hunched over her desk. She'd barely even reacted when he'd entered the office. That-- that was unheard of.  
“Moneypenny. Everything alright?”  
She straightened, and looked up at him. Her ice blue eyes were ringed with red.  
“Jake?” she said, with a voice held together by tape.  
“Jaaaa-aane...” came M's voice over the speaker. “Is English here yet?”  
Her attention snapped back to the desk.  
“Sending him through now, ma'am,” she said. She took her finger off the button.  
“Moneypenny, what's the--”  
“You should go,” she said, barely above a breath.  
“But--”  
“Please.”  
She stood, began rifling through a filing cabinet. End of conversation.

The electronic door buzzed, and slid open for Jake to enter.  
M was behind her desk, a mammoth teak affair upon which rested a variety of computers in various states of disassembly, several intelligence dossiers, and what some people might call an alarming amount of empty bottles.  
“You're late, 0011,” she said, brandishing a glass at him.  
“Beg your pardon, ma'am,” Jake said, crossing to the desk. “I came as soon as I could.”  
“D'you want a drink?” she said, rising and heading to the cabinet.  
Jake surreptitiously eyed his wristwatch.  
“I think I'll wait,” he said.  
M poured two generous portions of Gordon's, sprinkled them with tonic and dropped in ice and lime.  
“A votre sante,” she said, handing him a glass and raising her own.  
“Um. Cheers.”  
Jake clinked glasses and took a sip. Jesus fuck, that was strong. He fought the urge to pull a face, and took M's sitting down as a cue to do the same. She leaned back a moment, held the tumbler to her head, and closed her eyes.  
“Whaddyew know about Caliborn?”  
“Hmm,” Jake took another, smaller sip of the drink, teased it round his mouth, arranging his thoughts. “I know he's a real dedicated blackguard, no two ways about it! Runs a very unromantic crime syndicate in East Asia, headquarters allegedly in Macau. Highly secretive chap-- no reliable photos and no real name. Appeared out of nowhere about ten years ago. Associates tend to be assigned numbers in lieu of titles, though with little actual relation to their eminence in his organisation. Most are highly competent and deadly. Most.”  
He took another sip. M was studying him from her reclined position, half-lidded eyes nonetheless steady.  
“The ones that have been picked up tend to be of marginal significance, but it has been theorised that a lot of his profits are ploughed into scientific research, and that there's a private lab somewhere in Macau working on some pet project of his. A personality profile has been begun, but unlikely to be completed, which describes him as more than typically interested in timepieces and games. He's speculated to be awfully wound up with the notion of his own mortality.”  
He placed his glass on the desk.  
“That's all that springs to mind immediately, I'm afraid.”  
“Not bad, English,” M said. She swiveled on her chair, and tapped her tablet a couple of times. The oak panels behind her desk slid apart, exposing an eighty-inch screen displaying a grey, highly stylised and distorted skull, with two crimson gemstones smouldering in their eye sockets.  
“This w'z leaked to us by an operative in Colombia las' night,” she said, before she pressed Play.

“My compliments,” a voice began, harsh, half-snarled, very little accent. “If you have received this you are one who is unfettered by the abstract shackles of decency or humanity. My kind of lowlife, in other words.”  
“Charming fellow,” Jake remarked.  
“Ssshspps!” said M.  
“I am issuing an invitation, to you and others like you receiving this recording. I want to play a game. The stakes, one million pounds sterling per player. Winner-takes-all.  
The tournament will be held in Macau, at the Ying Wen Casino on the 11th of November. You are welcome to arrive at any time on the day. Make yourself known to the casino staff. They have been fully briefed and will handle your personal needs with discretion. The tournament, however, will begin at seven in the evening in the Emerald Lounge. Latecomers will not be permitted. Casino policy prohibits the carrying of weapons of any kind. However, you are allowed one companion of your choice to accompany you when you enter the tournament.  
The game will be announced at the opening of the tournament. I can guarantee it will be most enjoyable, and an opportunity to make contact with a variety of well-connected men and women unlike any other. Please submit the entry fee in cash on entry to the Lounge.  
I look forward to competing, and hope to see you on the 11th. Until then, farewell.”

The red gemstones in the skull glinted, then exploded in a red haze, filling the screen. M tapped on her tablet, and the panels slid closed. She swiveled back to face Jake.  
“Well?”  
“Well, it's obviously a diabolical trick of some sort,” he said.  
“Obvissuly,” M concurred.  
“Probably a deadly trap to separate avaricious gangsters, rapscallions and general do-badders from their ill-gotten gains and eliminate some of his competition into the bargain.”  
“At the very leasht.”  
“When do you want me to leave?”  
M gave him a crooked smile.  
“Nothin' gets past you, does it, English?” She necked the last of her gin, tossed her silvery-blonde hair back, and pushed her chair towards the cabinet with her feet, for a refill. “Your briefing's inna dossier on the top. Y'r lift to the airport leavesh at five.”  
Jake craned his neck. There it was, sealed and stamped with his agent designation.  
“Anything else I should know, ma'am?”  
M was pouring herself another tot of gin.  
“Thish is off the record, English. You know the business wi'va warship?”  
“You mean the HMS Dream?”  
“Assa one.”  
“What about it? Have we located the wreck?”  
“No. But there'sh been some intesering word on the grapevine that Caliborn had something to do with it.”  
“What?” Jake scowled. “There's nothing to indicate he has anything like the firepower necessary to take down a ship of that size! Especially without leaving a trace!”  
“Thass for you to determine, 0011,” M said, before taking another hearty swig. “Tha'll be all.”  
“Ma'am.” Jake rose, offered a brief salute, entirely unnoticed, and headed out.  
“English.”  
He paused by the door.  
“Come back alive.”  
He winked, index fingers primed and pointed.  
“Always, ma'am.”  
Bang bang.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been robo-calculated with a 98.3% degree of accuracy that this chapter contains twice the ship-teasing of the previous chapter.

Moneypenny was waiting for him when he left M's office. She still looked in a terrible way.  
“Jake,” she said, pushing another folder into his hands, “This is all the information I could find on the Caliborn syndicate. Take it, please.”  
Jake opened the folder. It was thick with situation reports, most translated from Mandarin, and what looked an awful lot like private correspondence.  
“Great galloping dickwolves, Moneypenny,” he exclaimed, rifling through the material. “You're quite the sleuth.”  
“Thank you, Jake,” she said, brightening a little. “Please be careful, though. This Caliborn-- he's been so secretive up till now. He won't reveal himself unless he has some sort of unassailable edge, I'm sure of it.”  
“You know me, Moneypenny.”  
“Yes, that's why I'm asking you to be careful.”  
“No! I mean, I'll get to the bottom of this. He may be a ruddy mysterious sort, but I always get my man in the end.”  
“I'm sure you will,” Moneypenny said. “But you should make time to check in with Q before you leave. I'm sure he'll have something to help you out.”  
“I was just on my way,” he assured her. “Thanks again!”  
He dithered a moment, not sure if a hug was appropriate, under the circumstances, but hands too full for a friendly handshake. She watched him, looking bemused.  
“I'll, er, just be off then,” he said.  
“Yes,” Moneypenny said. “If that's-- if that's all.”  
“Yes, I should think so.” Jake said. “Did I thank you for the intel?”  
“You did, yes.”  
“OK, well, good then. ...See you later!”  
“Bye...”

Q's workshop was, as always, strewn with the weird and wonderful gadgets he was so very fond of devising. Sometimes, when he wasn't on the job, Jake liked to come down here just to look at the newest contraptions. Well, that wasn't the only reason he liked to visit the workshop, but it was certainly a prominent one.  
Jake could see the distinctive flare of a welding torch from the cabin at the rear of the shop, and wended his way past the motorcycle carcasses, the peculiar robotics, and the other, even more esoteric devices. Was that a missile launcher hanging out of that jetski? Probably.  
Q was hunched over the workbench. Even from behind, Jake could see he was wearing his customised welding goggles, with the outlandish points. He knew better than to interrupt him while he was working, so he picked up a prosthetic leg to fiddle with until Q finished. It was odd, the bottom tapered to a shape very much like a rifle barrel. He wondered...  
“Put that down, 0011,” Q said, without looking around. Jake started, but did as he was told. The quartermaster turned off the torch and stood, shrugging off his heavy-duty gloves.  
“Welcome back, English,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”  
“Hello, Q. I don't know if you've heard about this business in Macau--”  
“You're going after Caliborn,” Q said. “I heard about it.”  
“Yes, well, it seems every bloody person in the country knew before me,” Jake snapped. “But that's besides the point.”  
“You want to know what I can help you out with. Come with me.” Q passed him, entering the workshop proper. Jake followed.

“Now, pay attention, 0011. Your standard sidearms. Twin Walther PPKs, modified with a larger magazine capacity, after you complained about that business in Tripoli. I've pared down the casing to compensate for the additional weight, but you should still practice with them before entering a live-fire situation.”  
Q dropped the holster belt into Jake's hands, and Jake took a second strapping himself in before progressing. Q was happy enough to watch.  
“Thanks for that, Q. Hopefully we'll avoid any sticky situations of that sort this time round!”  
“With you on the mission?” Q cocked an eyebrow. “There's a first time for everything, I suppose.” He edged past Jake.  
“This way, English,” he said.  
Jake followed him to another workbench. There were a couple of cubes sat on it, one white and blue, the other white and red. Q picked up the larger, blue one, and tossed it to Jake. It was about the size of a cricket ball.  
“Model RJ-0612S. Codename: Sawtooth. Disrupts 97% of electromagnetic transmissions within an approximate three-mile radius. _Don't_ set it off here.”  
“Gosh,” Jake said, holding it up to his face. “Sounds potent.”  
“M doesn't know Q Branch works on them here. If she found out we had high power comms jammers in development this close to the London Stock Exchange...” Q simply pushed his welding goggles back up the bridge of his nose. “Should come in useful.”  
“What's the other one?” Jake asked.  
Q picked it up and turned it over. This one was about the size of a cue ball, but on its underside it had a medley of ports, slots and other interfaces.  
“UT-0413W. Squarewave. Plugs into pretty much anything with a transmitter. Broadcasts on pretty much every frequency there is. When you absolutely need to get a message out. You'll be heard from Radio 4 to 'Nam vets with plates in their heads.”  
“Well, they did say 'It's good to talk',” Jake quipped.  
Q dropped Squarewave into his hand.  
“Get it?” Jake said. “Remember the adverts? With the phones, and--”  
“That'll do, English,” Q said. “Something else for you.”  
He produced a pair of glasses from his jacket. They looked just like Jake's.  
“Put these on.”  
Jake obliged. His vision seemed a little crisper, but that was about the extent of it.  
“So, what do they actually do?” he asked.  
“Easier if I show you,” Q said, in his ear.  
“Goodness! You sound so close!” Jake said. “It's like you're talking right into my ear!”  
“I am.”  
Jake blinked. Q hadn't actually moved his mouth.  
“How are you doing that?”  
“Doing what?”  
“You're talking into my head without moving your lips. Oh my god, Q, are you psychic now?”  
“Calm your tits, English. You're getting overexcited. I'm not the Q you're looking at right now.”  
“You're not?” Jake saw the sides of Q's mouth twitching. From long experience, Jake knew this was the equivalent of him laughing his arse off. He could feel himself turning red, at the centre of some elaborate practical joke. “Well, who the bloody hell are you, then?”  
“I am an almost exact replica of Q's mind, constituted as an artificial intelligence.”  
“You're a robot?” Jake said, incredulously. Flesh-and-blood Q rolled his eyes behind his goggles, and began gathering up scraps of robotics from a nearby workbench.  
“Uh, no. I just told you I'm an AI. I'll be your unofficial partner on this assignment. My role is to act as a sort of mission control.”  
“I don't know if I underst--”  
“You've played Halo, right?”  
“Ooooh. I get it.”  
“For example,” Jake heard from the glasses.  
The surface of the lenses were suddenly overlaid with grid lines, and a triangular marker lay over the lab's exit.  
“We should head back to Moneypenny's office. She's waiting for us with something.”  
“What? How do you know that?” Jake asked.  
“Know what?” Q asked.  
“The glasses say Moneypenny has something for me,” Jake said.  
“I robo-calculated, with a projected 97.8% degree of accuracy, the likelihood that Moneypenny would want to present you with a token of her considerable esteem for you before you left,” the glasses reported.  
“The glasses are patched into the MI6 security server. He probably just accessed the CCTV for her office,” Q explained.  
“Huh. Can you tell Q he's a joyless shirt-lifting wassock, English?” the glasses asked.  
“Oh no, I'm not getting involved in this,” Jake said. Q quirked an eyebrow. “You don't want to know,” Jake informed him.  
“Killjoy,” the glasses said.  
Q grunted, and carried his pile of robotics into his enclave. Another marker appeared hovering over Q, reading 'Joyless Wassock'.  
“Good luck, 0011,” he said. “Bring everything back in one piece, won't you?”  
“Er, I'll do my best, Q,” Jake said, doing his best not to snort with laughter.

“So, he didn't tell you, then?” the glasses said, after Jake left the lab.  
“Tell me what?” Jake asked, earning an odd look from a passing employee.  
“Good grief. That cold fish. Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the computer and which is the person.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“The reason he was so upset back there.”  
“Q was upset?” Jake said. “Really?”  
“Wow, you are pretty dense, Jake English. Even by human standards.”  
“Well, pardon me if I don't have a quintillion tiny microprocessors calculating the emotional state of my closest friends every second of the day.”  
“Do you want me to tell you?”  
“Not really,” Jake said. “If he didn't tell me himself, it must be rather personal. I'd rather not pry.”  
“Tch. Listen, English. I am an artificial intelligence designed to replicate Q's knowledge and personality with a current actual fidelity of 99.2%. We are essentially the same person, and I'm telling you I don't mind you knowing.”  
“That's all very well, but I'm still not comfortable with--”  
“Our brother was aboard the HMS Dream when it disappeared,” the glasses said. “All of our attempts to contact him have failed. And we have many. Believe me.”  
“Glasses!” Jake snapped. “Were you even listening to me?”  
“You need to understand the situation here,” they said. “If you are avoiding information because the means of discovering it seem unpalatable to you, you have uselessly and pointlessly crippled yourself.”  
“I am trying to respect my friend's boundaries, glasses,” Jake said. “You may think you're a nigh-perfect copy of Q, but he didn't tell me for a reason, which is something you seem not to be able to understand.”  
“...So you regard Q as a friend, do you? Most interesting.”  
“I shall put you in my pocket and go back to my sass-free normal glasses. Don't think that I won't.”  
“Very well. I shall refrain from divulging information your sentimental human intellect may regard as personal to Q. Even though, as previously stated, I am to all extents and purposes Q.”  
“Well, I'm not calling you Q, so you'd better think up a new name lickety-split, chum,” Jake said. “I'm not calling you 'Glasses' for the rest of the mission.”  
The glasses were quiet a moment.  
“Robo-calculating...robo-calculating...robo-calculating...”  
“Glasses!”  
“Fine. I was just messing with you. I'll think of one later.”  
Jake was silent.

“You didn't know him, did you?”  
“No. I saw his picture once, in the workshop. He looked like a decent guy. Ridiculous sunglasses. But decent.”  
“He was pretty cool,” the glasses said. “Not as cool as he thought he was. But we loved him.”  
“OK, now I know you're not really Q,” Jake said. “He'd never say something so upfront. And you can't have emotions anyway!”  
"Can so."  
"No, you can't!"  
“If I can't have emotions, why does it feel like you're shitting on them?”  
“Because you like to pretend you're a real person, just like Q likes to pretend he's a robot with no feelings. Because you're both obstinate, contrary, infuriating knots of insecurity with eleven layers of impermeable caustic banter covering up the fact that deep down, you're just as brittle and flawed as the rest of us. No, I take that back. More brittle and flawed, since you spend so much time deluding yourself into believing your own _stupid hype_!”  
Jake came to the end of the corridor, and called the lift.  
“...It seems you feel frustrated with us for not being more open with ourselves.”  
He entered the lift and pressed the button.  
“Well, not you. I really don't know about your individual foibles, and I can't say I give a badger's ballsack to know them. One Q is quite enough as it is.”  
“You know, if I weren't an emotionless AI incapable of dreams, ambitions or friendship, that would have really offended me.”  
Jake chose not to rise to the bait.  
“For an allegedly stoic, gung-ho gentleman spy, you're unusually quick to emotional outbursts. Has anyone ever told you that?”  
“I'm a man of passions, glasses. That might be difficult for you to understand, but it means I have a low tolerance for evasive jiggery-pokery and bullshit like that.”  
Now it was the glasses' turn to play mute.

“By the way, what did you mean before?”  
“Hm?”  
“When you said Moneypenny has considerable esteem for me?”  
The lift doors parted, and there waiting for him was the lady herself.  
“Heh. You're on your own, Passion-Man,” the glasses said.  
“Oh great. Thanks a lot!” Jake snapped.  
“What?” said Moneypenny, alarmed.  
“Um, nothing. Everything alright, Moneypenny? Are you feeling better?”  
“Actually, that's...kind of what I want to talk to you about,” she said, eyes skating off his and darting to a corner. Jake stepped out of the lift and grasped her arm.  
“What's the matter?”  
Her gaze darted back, first to her arm, then his face. Her eyes were wide, trembling.  
“It's...it's about the mission.”  
“Is it more intel?” Jake said. “Because I have to say, Moneypenny, you've been bloody helpful in that regard.”  
“No, it's...” She shrugged off his arm. “M wouldn't want me saying this. You're not supposed to have personal involvement in the case. But I had to say something.”  
“You can tell me anything, Moneypenny,” Jake said. This earned him a peculiar look, with those singular, sky blue eyes.  
“My cousin... he was a sailor on the HMS Dream,” she said, eyes dropping again. “It...it was his birthday. I didn't even get to speak to him before...”  
She covered her mouth, shoulders heaving in silent sobs. Jake stepped in, wrapped her in his arms. She was oddly rigid. Must be the grief, Jake thought.  
“I'm so sorry,” he told her. They stood there a moment, the occasional sob escaping her, until Jake released her.  
“It's good you told me,” he said. “Thank you.”  
She didn't say anything, just rubbed at her watering eyes.  
“We're going to get to the bottom of this, I promise you,” Jake said. “OK?”  
Moneypenny nodded.  
“Alright.” Jake shuffled his feet a little. “I, uh, I should probably...”  
“I made you these!” Moneypenny said, brandishing a brown paper bag at his face.  
“You...huh?”  
“For the trip,” she said. “Please take them.”  
Jake gingerly took the bag, and opened it. Inside were two tupperwares full of cream scones.  
“Wow. Thanks, Moneypenny. You...you didn't have to--”  
“Baking takes my mind off it,” she said. “I didn't mind, really...”  
“Well, thank you,” he said. “I'm sure they'll be delicious.”  
“Jake...” she began.  
“Hm?”  
“...Good luck on your mission.”  
“Thanks, Moneypenny.”  
He clapped her on the arm, and gave her his best, bracing smile, which she returned to the extent she could.  
“Take care of yourself.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Wow. I see how you get all the ladies.”  
“Why don't you digitally synthesise yourself a sock, and then put that sock in it, where it is your dumb robo-mouth!”  
“Shit, man. You have to start warning me if you're going to be throwing those weapons-grade chemical burns around.”  
“Or you could just shut up because this is stupid,” Jake retorted.  
“Yeah, pretty much.”  
His phone began chiming. M.  
“Ma'am?” he answered.  
“En'lish? You ready to go?” she said. She sounded three sheets to the wind. Assuming that wind was Katrina.  
“Ready and willing.”  
“Thass what I like t'hear,” she said. “There's a car ousside t'take you t'the airport.”  
“I'm on my way.”  
“G'luck, 0011.”  
Jake hung up, and picked up the pace.

“Anyway, did you think of a name yet, or were you too busy critiquing my failure to employ any gentlemanly wiles on a grieving friend?”  
“The implication that my incredible processing power couldn't perform both tasks simultaneously is offensive in itself,” the glasses said. “But I'll overlook that since I'm feeling so bizarrely charitable to the poor flesh-based intelligences. To use the term 'intelligence' loosely. Also the term 'charitable'.”  
“Is that a 'no' then?”  
“No. I have come to the conclusion that the most appropriate name for myself is Ian.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“Ian. I like it. It has a certain concise _je ne sais quoi_ about it, wouldn't you agree?”  
“I'm not calling you Ian.”  
“Why not?”  
“It's ridiculous! Ian's a human name, AIs don't have names like that.”  
“Really.”  
“Of course not! They're called things like Skynet or Deep Thought or Red Queen.”  
“Are you seriously suggesting I name myself after a character from a Resident Evil film.”  
“They're great films! Alice is just the sort of rough-and-tumble lass I'd love to grapple with! I don't mind telling you I'd give her a courting she wouldn't forget in a hurry!”  
“There is nothing about this conversation that is not terrible.”  
“Alright, fine. Red Queen isn't really descriptive anyway.” Jake thought a moment. “You know how Q's always wearing those sort of orange welding goggles? With the points?”  
“How could I forget. I spent my first two months of sentience uploaded to them.”  
“Well, how do you feel about Goldeneye?”  
“I hate it.”  
“Because you're a pair of--”  
“I get it. I hate it.”  
“Well, I like it. That's what I'm going to call you.”  
“You were closer with Red Queen.”  
Jake laughed, as they entered the car park. There was a loud honk from a likely-looking Bentley Mulsanne.  
“That's our ride,” the glasses reported. The driver-side window rolled down, and a young woman with garish red shades leaned out.  
“Oi! You Jake?”  
“...Um, yes,” Jake said.  
“Awesome! Get in, mate! Let's get this baby cranked up!” she called, tossing her long dark hair and slipping back into the car. Obnoxiously loud dubstep began bouncing off of Jake's skull.  
“I'm not terribly comfortable with this,” he confessed.  
“Her name's Latula Pyrope,” the glasses said. “New field agent. Very enthusiastic. Resourceful. Driving skills leave something to be desired though. She'll be your escort to the airport.”  
“When you say 'something to be desired'--”  
“Get in the damned car, English.”

“Hey, man. I hear tell you're going to Macau, am I right?” she asked as he made himself comfortable in the back seat.  
“Yes, that's right,” he said, raising his voice over the din.  
“Radical!” a hand snaked its way back, over her seat back, palm outstretched.  
Jake stared at it in confusion.  
“Dude. Do _not_ leave me hanging.”  
He clapped a hand to hers, which seemed to satisfy her. She put both of hers to the wheel once more.  
“Let's see what this bad girl can do, then!” she said, revving the engine.  
“You mean this isn't your car?” he asked.  
“Nah. Totalled the Land Rover. Borrowing this beauty for now. Pretty awesome, huh?” The Bentley lurched backward, and clipped a concrete pillar, shearing off the left wing mirror. The car halted as she grappled with the gearstick.  
“S'alright,” she said. “Wasn't using it anyway.”  
“You might want to put your seatbelt on,” the glasses advised.  
With effort, Jake prized his arms from around the passenger seat back, and sat back down, scrambling for the seatbelt buckle. Latula kicked the car into forward gear and swung it round to the exit.  
“Let's kick it!”  
And with a screech of protesting tires, they were away.

“Yo, J-Dubz, we're here,” Latula announced. “You can open your eyes now.”  
Jake lowered his hands from his face. They were at Heathrow Terminal 4, not quite parallel parked in the drop-off zone.  
“Well, thanks for the lift, Latula,” Jake said, swinging the door open and grabbing his holdall.  
“No probz man, any time,” she said, leaning out of her window. “Give me one up top!”  
She delivered a high-five that rattled the bones in Jake's arm. “Damn, Ingo, that was sick! Yo, but next time, you gotta keep those eyes peeled. You missed my rad skid off the roundabout!”  
“In her defence, it was pretty rad,” the glasses said.  
“I'll do my best,” Jake assured her. He hefted the bag and headed for the doors, wincing as he heard a crunch behind him. He turned, to see Latula extricating the Bentley, minus its other wing mirror, from an adjacent Megane.  
“Wasn't using that one, either,” Jake muttered, disappearing into the airport.

“Will you need anything else, sir?” the air hostess asked.  
Jake settled into the expansive seat and looked up at her.  
“A drink would be excellent.”  
“Of course, sir. We have Heineken, Bollinger...”  
Jake shook his head.  
“No, no. Dry martini. Three parts Gordon's, one part vodka, one-half part Kina Lillet. Shaken till it's ice-cold, poured into a deep champagne goblet with a long, thin slice of lemon peel.”  
The hostess offered an uneasy smile.  
“That's...quite a drink. I'll see what I can do.”  
“Cheers,” Jake said, and pulled out his Financial Times.  
“You do realise that shaking it means the ice doesn't diffuse as effectively?” the glasses said. Jake ignored them.  
“And what can I get you, ma'am?” the hostess asked, moving along to the person sat opposite.  
“I'll have a Spiderbite, please.”  
“I'm afraid I'm not familiar--”  
“One shot of white tequila floating in Red Bull.”  
“Of course, ma'am. Right away.”  
Jake peered over his newspaper.  
“That's a serious drink for this time of day,” he said.  
“I could say the same,” she said, turning to face him. God, but she was beautiful.  
Shoulder-length black tresses, skin dark, glowing, with eyes a startling blue and lips picked out in bold cerulean. She was wearing a deep navy business suit, but just looking at her Jake could see something in her bearing that didn't belong to that world. Something of his. He was spellbound.  
“Charmed to meet you,” he said, extending a hand across the aisle. “Your name was...”  
“Aranea Serket,” she said. “Likewise.”  
“Aranea. What an exceptional name. I'm--”  
“English. Jake English. I've been waiting for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“English. Jake English. I've been waiting for you,” she said, extending her hand for him to take.  
“Aranea Serket...” the glasses said. “I'm not getting anything on that name.”  
Jake took her hand, pressed it softly.  
“Lucky me,” he said, with a smile only half-forced. “Are you heading my way?”  
“Yes I am. And I'm going to be your plus one for the tournament.”  
“Is that so?”  
“No, it isn't,” the glasses said. “There was nothing about this in the mission brief.”  
“It is,” Aranea said. “Believe me, you do not want to walk in there without another pair of eyes watching your back.”  
“Seriously. I'm running that name through everything I can access and hitting jack all.”  
“Oh, I'm used to rough scenarios,” Jake assured her. “Don't worry on my behalf.”  
“Jake.” She smiled, and Jake felt a fluttering in his chest, “You're not on some madcap jaunt around the Caribbean this time. Caliborn has put the call out to the nastiest, grimiest collection of cutthroats, terrorists, assassins and mobsters he can shake out of this ugly little world. If you don't take this seriously you're going to end up very dead very quickly.”  
“She has a point, English,” the glasses chimed in.  
“Whose side are you **on**?” he hissed.  
“What?” said Aranea.  
“Um, I said, 'Whose side are **you** on?'” Jake said, putting on his most hard-boiled of looks.  
Aranea's smile faded.

“Let's not get into that right now,” she said, raising a hand to her throat. “What's important is that Caliborn is tipping his hand here.”  
“What do you know about Caliborn?” he asked.  
“Same as most people,” she said. “And a little more besides. For example, I know he's missing a leg.”  
“Really?” Jake said. “How's that?”  
“Oh, nobody knows. No-one that will tell, anyway. He has a selection of prosthetics, I gather some of them are quite...unique.”  
“Well, I suppose that's useful to know,” Jake said. “Anything else you can shine a light on for me?”  
“Of course. The skull iconography is more than just a brand, you know.”  
“What?” Jake said. “You mean he actually has a skull for a head? Sainted aunts and uncles, that would be something! I could be like that Captain America chappie to his Red Skull! How fucking ripping would that be?”  
“Um, that's not what I meant,” Aranea said. “I highly suspect it represents some kind of dissatisfaction with his appearance. Given his extreme egotism and megalomania, he would have to have some fairly compelling reasons not to reveal his face. I've theorised that he has some kind of complex about his self-image. It may well be related to the same incident that claimed his leg, whatever that may have been. It would certainly account for his preoccupation with the notion of corporeal permanence, particularly immortality. It would also go some way towards explaining why he so jealously guards any personal information, at odds with his general behavioural patterns, which indicate a drive towards performance, and a twisted kind of showmanship. This business with the video, for example.”  
Jake took all this in, as much as he was able. As she finished, the air hostess approached with their drinks, and he took a sizeable swig.  
“Gosh, you've clearly given this a bally great amount of thought,” he said, as she delicately tipped her head back and guzzled her cocktail. “I have to ask, though.”  
She put her drink down, and hiccoughed.  
“Pardon me.”  
“Of course.”  
“Ask away, then.”  
“You wouldn't be the one who began that personality profile on him, would you?”  
A blush came to her olive cheeks, and she seemed all the lovelier for it.  
“You read that? Oh, that was a while ago now...”  
“Yes, of course. I have to say, it was a real sorrow that you never finished it. I've boned up on a criminally insane villain or two in my time, Miss Serket. Sometimes I almost get tired of it. But I've never boned as thoroughly as with your material.”  
“Oh, bravo,” the glasses said.  
“Um, that is to say...” he began, feeling his cheeks burn.  
She giggled demurely, and raised her glass, cutting across him.  
“Well, Mr. English, I hope I shall be able to meet your expectations in person.”  
Jake reached across the aisle to clink glasses.  
“I'll drink to that,” he said.

They disembarked in the wee hours of the morning, the humid air chilly and bracing after ten hours in a plane. At the suggestion of the glasses, they split up to pass through Immigration and baggage claim, and soon stood at the taxi rank. Among the scattered yellow and black and cream cabs, there sat a BMW 5 Series, looking rather out of place. A chauffeur was leaning against it, fiddling with a smartphone, but looked up and started as he saw the two waigouren standing at the pick-up point.  
“Mr. Stock?” he asked, as he approached. “Mr. Jim Stock? United Exports?”  
“That's me,” Jake said, stepping forward, and handing him his bag. “The Grand Hyatt?”  
“Yes, sir. A very short drive. We'll have you checked in in no time.”  
“Excellent.” Jake nodded to Aranea, who offered her own carry-case to the chauffeur. He bustled away and slotted them into the BMW's boot, then turned to open the door for Aranea. Jake made his way round to the other side, and stole the opportunity to talk to the glasses.  
“Well?”  
“Seems legit.”  
Jake grunted, and slipped into the car.  
“Hm?” Aranea looked up, but Jake shook his head. The car pulled out, weaving, liquid, through the stuttering taxis.

“Mr. Stock! Welcome to Macau!” came a plummy voice, as they entered the hotel lobby, the chauffeur leading them and the bellboy with their bags. The hotel manager, a stout but immaculately dressed gentleman stepped forward. “How delightful to see you here safely. We've been awaiting your arrival. I trust you had a pleasant trip?”  
“Very, thank you,” Jake said.  
Can I offer you anything from the bar?”  
Jake looked to Aranea, who declined.  
The manager barked to the bellboy in Cantonese, who hurried over to the lift and stabbed a button.  
“Ming-Yu will be a moment with your bags. We're placing you in the Palatial Suite. I hope it will be to your likings.”  
“I'm sure it will be,” Jake said, consenting to be guided to a table near the main desk. The manager made a meal of seating Aranea, his eyes drifting over her admittedly arresting figure as he did.  
“Have either of you been to Macau before?”  
“I'm afraid not,” Aranea said.  
“Oh, then you are in for a treat, my dear,” the manager said. “Do you have any plans?”  
A young lady in an immaculate bartending uniform approached with two gently steaming cups.  
“I'll be heading to the Ying Wen Casino tomorrow morning,” Jake said.  
“Oh, the Ying Wen Casino?” the manager said. “Very good. Would you like me to arrange a car?”  
“Yes please. Ten o' clock should be perfect.”  
“Of course.”  
The bartender bowed and left, the cups on the table before them.  
“This is ginger milk,” the manager said, leaning forward, conspiratorial. “A Macanese delicacy. Very famous dessert! Please, try some.”  
Aranea dipped a spoon into the pudding and raised it to her mouth.  
“Mmm,” she said. “It's good!”  
The manager beamed, as the lift at the other end of the room chimed, and the doors drew back to reveal the bellboy.  
“Ah, your suite is ready,” he said. “Please, follow me.”

The manager led them to an exquisite area of the hotel, from the look of the high ceilings, marble columns, and portraits on the wall, modelled after Versailles. Their suite, too, was in this style, with a single, sprawling salon festooned with vases of stargazer lilies, and a bedroom at each end, a balcony stretching the length of the room. They were far enough up the building to see the first hints of sunrise on the horizon, peering over the rest of the city. Palatial indeed.  
“Would sir and madam care for the guided tour?” the manager asked, as Aranea looked over her bags resting on the chaise.  
“No, I'm afraid we should get some sleep if I'm to be up at ten,” Jake said.  
“As you wish, sir. I will say, if there is anything about the suite not to your liking, the number for the front desk, the kitchens, and my office are all listed by your telephone.” He bowed, smiling broadly. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”  
And with that he left. Jake listened to his footfalls on the carpet outside a moment, before leaping into action. He started combing the walls and their fittings.

“What are you doing?” Aranea asked.  
“Have to check for bugs,” Jake whispered. “First rule of espionage.”  
“I thought that was 'Don't tell anyone you're a spy',” the glasses said. Jake ignored them.  
“You think he might have bugged the room?” Aranea said. Jake held a finger to his lips, and, realising, she clamped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, under her breath.  
Having satisfied himself there was nothing on the walls, he moved round to the phone sitting on the side table – an elegant candlestick model. He turned it upside down and prized the bottom panel off. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.  
“Looks clean,” the glasses said. Jake grunted in assent, and moved on to the bedroom. Aranea followed, somewhat in awe.  
The bedside tables were clear, as was the headboard and the light fittings. Jake tugged open the mirrored wardrobe doors, and peered behind.  
“Let me switch to infra-red,” the glasses said, and a field of red fell over Jake's eyes. Under this lens, Jake could make out rather more of the wardrobe space, and also, when he withdrew and looked at the mirror again, the lens of a camera embedded inside it, previously invisible.  
He turned to Aranea, his vision returning to normal. While out of its frame of vision, he jabbed at the mirror and made the camera motion with his hands. Aranea nodded, and Jake returned to the main room a moment, returning with his bags. He dug out a small but serviceable toolbox, and vanished into the wardrobe. When he emerged, it was with a clipped section of wire that he carefully placed in a plastic baggie and put in the toolbox.  
“What are you--”  
“It'll be easy enough to replace when they come to see what the problem with it is, while we're out,” he said. “Better to keep them trying to replace a faulty camera rather than think we know they're spying on us.”  
“Good idea,” said Aranea, sitting on the bed and producing a compact mirror, fussing with her face.  
“Thanks,” he said, leaving to return the tools to his bag. 

When he re-entered, it was with a cloth, a canister of gun lubricant, and his Walthers, which he was polishing.  
“So. I've indulged you this far, but now comes the part where you tell me who the deuce you actually are.” He cocked the pistol in his hand. “If you'd be so kind.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sorry in the slightest.
> 
> For the record, there will, obviously, be pairings occurring later in the story. They'll be tagged as and when. None are especially contentious, if you're liable to get your jimmies rustled.


End file.
